


Can't Find a Better Man

by disco_theque



Category: Pearl Jam, U2
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 21:38:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13749732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disco_theque/pseuds/disco_theque
Summary: Edge can't handle when a guest joins a U2 gig, and it sets him spiraling.Set during the Seattle stop on TJT2017, with flashbacks to 1992.Edge's POV, times two (it's... you'll get it).





	Can't Find a Better Man

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, zoolovelies sends you a few screencaps, unprompted, at 1am, and it sets you off, and then three days later, you've written 7,600 words from (two voices...) inside Edge's poor brain. This... is one of those times.
> 
> I recommend rewatching the performance of Mothers from Seattle (I mean, if not for this fic, just because it's a great performance), and pay close attention to the... lack of interaction between Eddie and Edge toward the end, because it's... something. Or, not something, I suppose. Regardless, that's where this started, and I'm not at all sorry for what came of it.
> 
> Bono and Edge did go to a sweaty, cramped Pearl Jam gig in Chicago, and the Pearl Jam guys were adorably starstruck to know they were in the audience.
> 
> This fic, more than my previous ones, would not exist without zoolovelies holding my hand every step of the way - thank you for dealing with all my panicky texts, and for your unyielding belief in me. I owe it all to you, Jasper <3

I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about this. It doesn’t matter, really. The audience loves him, you love him, and it makes perfect sense for him to do this. The audience is so in your back pocket at this point, after this emotional pinnacle you’ve crafted with this shadowy creature, and I should have seen this coming for tonight, back when we scheduled this date here.

Eddie.

Just his name, with letters so like mine, my name that you gave me, and I’m reeling a little. So when you got your latest in your lifelong series of undeniably brilliant ideas - and I will give you that, Eddie’s voice was damn made for Mothers - I couldn’t say no (40 years with you has taught me that “no” is the most dangerous word, anyway, especially when I stop to think that I don’t have any real reason to say no to this). I’m not exactly sure why I can’t handle this, after all these years. It’s been such a long time since that night, and I’m better than this. And I’ve seen him so many times since, and the three of us have had some downright great times together, but it’s this damn nostalgia tour. It’s stirred up in me the very things I’ve tried to keep down, all these years. Cheap jealousy that’s based on… Nothing. It’s nothing. I have to tell myself it’s nothing.

That’s what it is, right?

That’s what you told me.

That’s what I have to tell myself, or I’m liable to drop my guitar and I can’t very well do that in front of the 30,000-or-so people here. And I was doing so well, I thought I was doing so well, the concert going by in the exact degree of a blur we strive for, natural and hyper-focused and so caught up in the moment that I didn’t realize it was time until I played the last blistering measures of Exit, brain bypassing my heart and going straight to my fingers, and I’ve got this, I have a handle on this, I know how to do this, I’m an artist, a rockstar, you like to remind me.

Mothers begins, and it’s easier, easier to play and easier on the ear, easier on me until my brain catches up to what’s happening, just in time for you to intone this spirit, this voice, and then he’s here, he’s onstage with us.

I’m not ready. I have to be ready. The audience collectively loses their minds and I feel the need to fling myself off the stage and join them. It’s where I belong right now, anyway. But I have to keep my face on, I have to keep playing. “You’re a rockstar, Reg,” I can hear the you that has permanent residency in my head, and I can do this. I stay onstage and do my job, I play the song and have the requisite little jam with the Mumford guys.

It’s almost enough to make me feel better about the whole thing, but then you have to be you, you have to give him the sort of hug you’re known for, and it’s the same hug you’ll give anyone who crosses your path this evening, every evening, so why does it make my heart leap into my throat?

He walks toward me when you let go of him, and I flash him a generic smile. Dallas is behind him, though, so I shrug my guitar off, but I don’t feel free of any weight. I feel more weighed down if anything, my guitar usually gives me something to hide behind, something to focus on, but now I’m just me.

Smile and wave and applaud back to the crowd.

We’ve planned a big encore tonight, like I need to spend more time stuck in this show, but Seattle is admittedly one of the best crowds we’ll see, and we know it, and we know Eddie helped with that. We. I have to keep myself in the “we” right now, in the mentality of the band, of all four of us, or else I’ll be alone tonight.

Our few moments backstage are usually a welcome reprieve, mind-numbingly loud still, but somehow quiet, but when I reach the underworld, you’re there, he’s there, you’re gripping his arm and your smile is threatening the limits of your face, and it’s too much and all I want is to run and hide myself onstage again.

I don’t have time to stare at you, though. And I can’t exactly stage a quick getaway here. Adam winds up by my side and he gives me that inquisitive look he always does, and it’s all I can do to smile weakly and begin my series of stretches while he does his version of keeping up with me - he’s laughing about something with Larry before too long, and I eventually join in, like always, and for a minute, I forget about you. We are good at this, our version of work, and I’m grateful for the small escape.

“30 seconds,” a crew member hollers, and we yell it right back, and it’s something we’ve done for years, but it still makes us laugh, but it doesn’t sound right to me, so I turn back to you and realize… you didn’t do it. Eddie’s head is thrown back and he’s laughing and your nose is all but buried in his hair as you whisper in his ear.

Adam and Larry make their way back to the small fridge to get water before they leave for the stage, and I begin to follow them, but can’t help but look in your direction again. Has your hand left his arm at all? He’s holding you now, too, his hand supporting your elbow. For a second, my vision blurs, but I tell myself it’s not from tears, it’s nothing and I’m not going to be this upset over nothing, but I swear you could be his twin, his mirror. We’ve got to be at 15 seconds now, so I take a deep breath that’s more than a little shaky and maybe it was tears, and maybe it wasn’t, but I square my shoulders and walk in your direction.

Eddie sees me first, damnit, and he lifts his chin up in greeting. “I think Edge--”

“Yeah, I need him. We have a concert to finish, Bono.”

“I know,” you reply, maybe a little angrily, but maybe I sounded angry myself. When did I grab your arm? I’m just going to steer you back to the stage, no different than most nights, I tell myself. Maybe tonight isn’t any different from most nights, maybe I don’t have anything to worry about, maybe you are just being yourself and I’m overthinking this all. When we climb the steps, though, it all comes rushing back, that night in Chicago, and it’s a wonder I manage to take my guitar from Dallas and launch into Beautiful Day.

Besides Little Things, the encore is songs we’ve been playing for years, decades. Any other night, that would be a good thing - it gives me time to mentally step back from my own playing and enjoy the moment, and as we get older, it’s something I’ve come to appreciate more. Tonight, though. Tonight seems to be the exception to all my rules, to all my mental barriers. To anyone in the audience, I’m just doing my thing, stomping, smiling, being the scientist I’m expected to be. Forty years of being The Edge, and I’ve mastered it. Hell, you seem oblivious to what you’re doing to me tonight, so I must be doing something right.

Adam keeps looking at me though, and I can tell he knows I’m not quite myself, but it’s not worth getting into with him, at least not yet - not that I can here in front of this crowd, even if I wanted to. That would be something. Middle-aged guitarist throws a fit because of a night his bandmate may or may not have had, 25 years ago. Instead of the fit, I throw a little more flair on my solo in Elevation, really jerk my guitar around, and Adam seems to like that, so I’m safe, I assume. I hope.

_You’re not safe, and you know it._

Shit.

_Remember how he came back to you that night? Flushed, sweaty, glowing?_

Of course I remember. If I didn’t remember, I wouldn’t be going through any of this, would I? I just have to get through five more songs (of course we are doing such a long encore tonight, of all nights) and I can hide in my hotel room and hopefully forget all of this happened.

_You haven’t been able to forget about this for 25 years, so why would it suddenly work now? You were there. You remember it all. You woke up in Detroit, and he was damn near bouncing on the bed, he’d booked a room in Chicago, for that night, just for the two of you, and Pearl Jam was in town. It had been just a few months after you and Bono started… whatever it was you started, something you still haven’t put a name to, to this day, and you would have said yes to anything he suggested then. You still would, today. You hadn’t had a proper night out with him in a while, that spring, the tour getting the best of both of you, and the way his eyes sparkled reminded you of a younger Bono, the one you idolized but were too chickenshit to do anything about, so you jumped at his invitation._

I have to glance over at you, really take a moment and watch you now; no matter what, you mean more to me than the mess of that night - and tonight - and I can’t help but genuinely grin back at you when you catch my eye. When you’re like this, caught up in the music, you’re ageless. Beautiful.

_It’s the same look that was on his face that night, the two of you tucked in a corner of the tiny club, happy to be somewhere you weren’t readily recognized, so you could take in the gig uninterrupted. You blended in with the crowd well - both in black t-shirts and jeans, no need for flashy accessories here, and truthfully, it was a relief to be more casual for a night. The room was buzzing when they took the stage, and Eddie’s voice soared from the first note, and Bono gripped your wrist, unable to contain his excitement._

_“Do you SEE him?” Bono asked, hot breath on your ear, shouting to be heard, moving in tight against your chest. His body was so warm against yours, and though you hadn’t yet discussed how the two of you should act in public yet, since you started… whatever this was, you couldn’t resist throwing your arm over his shoulders, the cramped venue making you hold him close to yourself. That’s what you could tell anyone who looked at you funny, but no one seemed to acknowledge you, and it’s a relief. You buried your nose in his hair, already damp with sweat, and inhaled the sweet, smoky scent there._

_“He’s great, B,” you murmured against his ear, and you didn’t know if he heard you, Eddie’s voice worked up to a scream, a guttural sound that tore through the entire room, and Bono’s hold on your wrist tightened, and you shifted so you could hold his hand back, hard._

It’s not until my hand gives the first niggling of a cramp that I realize how tight I’ve been gripping the neck of my guitar, and I have to quickly stretch and flex my fingers between chords. No one notices, and I stifle a laugh. I’m being ridiculous, I know I’m being ridiculous, but I can’t stop.

_As the concert went on, the room got impossibly hotter. Eddie tore off his shirt at some point, and you tried to ignore the way you felt Bono’s body react, but when he was so pressed against you, what else was going to happen? And it’s not like you weren’t into it, yourself. You’d eventually shifted so you were standing fully behind Bono, your arms draped over him, your chin on his shoulder, and you both moved with the music, with Eddie’s voice. He was good - really good - the whole band was._

_His stage dive looked like a victory lap, and the crowd surged at that. You both got caught up in it, and Bono looked back gleefully over his shoulder at you, and you felt like a parent watching their child get on the school bus for the first time. “Go ahead, sweetie,” you wanted to say, knowing it would earn a laugh, but before you could, he was gone, headfirst into the crowd, his ravenblack hair shining in the hazy light. You made your way back to your corner, assuming he would find you at the end of the gig, but you managed to keep an eye on him and had to smile when Eddie passed right over him - he must have been on cloud nine at that._

Two more songs to go. The new one, and the first one. They’re both yours, just like everything else, I’m yours, it’s all yours. You’re shining, singing these new words, sharing your song of experience. I hope they love it. I know they will. It’s you, and they love you.

_When he finally made his way back to you, his eyes were glowing, teeth bared in a crazed smile, hair soaked and mussed. “I love this!” he shouted, as they played out their last chords, and Eddie yelled goodnight. “One of the crew spotted me up there,” Bono beamed, “We’re invited back after!” He sounded like a teenager, a groupie, and not the international rockstar he was, and you loved him for it. He could get into any party regardless of invitation, and you both knew it, but doing it this way gave you a taste of normalcy you’d nearly forgotten existed._

You’ve since figured out how to control your smiles, I note, mentally, while the audience jumps along to your first song for your mother, and I can’t help but jump along a little myself, and for this moment, it’s okay. Your smile is weathered now, it’s been through so much, but it’s somehow just as stunning to me. We are still together, still our band, and still leaving audiences begging for more.

_Begging for more._

I… can’t let myself think about that. Yet. For now, the concert is over. I’ve done it. I’ve gotten through it and I’m no worse for the wear, really, all things considered. I let you hug me, it’s what’s expected of us at the end of a gig, and it’s not much of a hug, not as tight or long as our usual ones, but you don’t seem to notice, the audience doesn’t seem to notice, and I’ve done it. A short walk down off the stage, and I’ll have made it.

_He was begging for more._

_You heard him, the slamming door woke you up, and you could hear the other voice, Eddie’s voice, and you could hear what they did, and you’re not often mistaken, are you? You know what you heard._

I make it backstage, and I beeline for the makeshift lounge that’s been set up for the night. We’d usually be well out of the stadium before the houselights turned back on, but with Eddie and Mumford here, a party was planned, and I know I don’t need the alcohol tonight, I know my brain is fucked enough as it is, but I need to stop thinking, so I ask for vodka, straight vodka, and the burn is bitter and exactly what I need. You’re nowhere to be found, as the room fills up, but I don’t have time to think about it now, and I’m likely better off for it, there’s backs to pat, selfies to take, and for a while, it’s fine. I’m used to this, and I’m good in these situations. I’m good. I’m not good.

Adam corners me after my second drink, his damn eyes always seeing right through me, and I tell him it’s nothing, assure him I’m just feeling a little off, and he suggests I go back to his dressing room, cool down for a while. “It’s quite lovely, the decor I’ve chosen for it.” I kiss his cheek, he’s become our zen guidepost over the past few years and I love him for it, and I grab another drink, think better of it and get two, and head down the corridor. Adam’s room is as promised, soft and inviting and somehow breezy and quiet in this network of gray cement, and I settle onto the plush sofa.

_The air backstage was stale, the beer was stale, even the couch you and Bono settled into felt stale, and you’d jump off it in horror if you had time to think about the things that have probably happened on those cushions. Bono talked your ear off, jabbing your shoulder for emphasis on especially big points, and you’d given up on reminding him you were at the concert too, you saw everything he’s telling you, after your third attempt went unnoticed. This is the Bono you love the most, though, you can’t resist the way his eyes dart around, searching his mind for the words to pair with the feelings that raced through him. Before long, the room was packed, and you joined in the cheer when Eddie and the rest of the boys entered. They had rounds to make, people to see, so Bono continued to lavish praise over them, to you, leaning closer to you now to be heard, and you kept your arm across his shoulders, feeling warm and comfortable, and it was still good, for now._

_Eddie eventually made his way to your couch, and you had to smile when Bono shifted closer yet to you so he had room to sit. You turned so your back was against the arm, and your knee nudged into Bono’s side, and he looked back at you with a smile, and you had no idea then that it would be the last time he’d look at you that evening._

Shit. I throw back the rest of my drink, pick up the other from the end table, lean back against the pillows, and hope that the numbness I need settles in, and soon. I can hear the party getting louder, down the hall, and I’m sure I’m missed, but I can’t bring myself to care.

_“You guys good? Do you need more beer?” Eddie asked, and you got it immediately, the charming, gentle nature of this man, just off stage after a gig and he’s thinking more of the people around him than himself. You held up your bottle, still mostly-full, but he signaled someone anyway, and a full tray was brought over to the table near you, and Bono reached for one eagerly. He leaned back against you, and you could feel his throat working as he swallowed, and Eddie didn’t seem fazed by any of it, so you let your fingers work into the curled-from-sweat ends of Bono’s hair, just a little. The three of you launched into the typical post-concert rapport, how the crowd was, did you hear the one amp blow out, can you believe you all get to do this for a living. It was an easy conversation to have, Eddie got along with you both so well, so naturally, and you didn’t realize how long you’d been talking until you noticed the empty beer bottles filling the table._

_Bono was in the middle of a detailed anecdote, always the storyteller, taking the spotlight even on an off night - not that anyone can blame him for it, it’s what he was born to do. This gave you time to study Eddie some, uninterrupted, as he watched Bono talk, and you realized then just how like Bono he is. The comparisons had already been swirling in the media - both of them passionate showmen, fueled by a desire to pour their hearts out onstage every night, and seeing them together, right in front of you, was damn near too much. They even resembled each other, physically, both short and strong, and when you took the time to study their features, your brain reeled. Their eyes were so similar, the same fire burning in them, and when Eddie’s smile turned into a low laugh, the same low laugh Bono had let out in your bed earlier that evening, it sent you barreling toward panic._

_“I’m, ehm, I’ll be right back,” your voice surprised you, and it took you a second to compose yourself, “Bathroom?"_

_Eddie pointed you in the right direction, hardly breaking his eye contact with Bono, who leaned forward to let you off the couch, leaned forward toward Eddie, and your vision blurred. Eddie tipped his head down to whisper something into Bono’s ear, you couldn’t hear what he said, but Bono’s low chuckle told you everything you needed to know. Maybe your walk to the bathroom was a little lopsided, maybe you’d just had too much to drink. That had to be all it was._

_The bathroom was dingy and dark, but the water from the faucet was cold and a welcome relief when you splashed it on your face. “What the fuck?” you asked your reflection. You didn’t have an answer. You didn’t expect an answer, really. Bono was a flirt and you knew it, you knew it from the moment you met him, and you never had a conversation about only doing whatever this was you were doing with each other exclusively, so_ _._ _You gripped the cold countertop, grounding yourself, and you had no idea how much the room was spinning until you stood still like this. After what you assumed was the appropriate amount of time to spend in a bathroom, you took a few steadying breaths, and headed back out._

_And they weren’t there._

_You spotted Stone nearby, and you willed your voice to lose the panicky tone screaming inside your head, and you only sounded maybe a little crazed when you asked him if he saw where they went. “Eddie said something about a proper bar,” Stone shrugged. “They invited us all, I don’t know. I’m having a good time here.”_

The vodka does its thing, finally. I can feel the edges of my mind blurring a little, and the after party sounds become nothing more than a low buzz, and I decide I need to lay down, so I finish my drink, grimacing a little at the taste now, and the room shifts a little with me when I move to lay down, but I’ll be fine, Adam will come track me down eventually. His couch is comfortable, and I’m grateful for it.

_You left the party soon after that, grateful your hotel was just a few blocks away, and you thought about poking your head into the several bars you passed, but you also didn’t want to see more of what you had already that night, so you kept walking. Ordinarily, you’d be concerned about getting Bono back to the room safely with you, but you were more than a little hurt right then, and you knew he was in good hands, as much as you hated to admit it._

_The hotel room was dark._

_You don’t know what you were expecting, you shouldn’t have been surprised, or disappointed, but you were. You went to the bathroom, brushed your teeth until it hurt, gulped down a few glasses of water, and saw that it was nearing 4am. You considered turning on the tv and waiting up for Bono, but a yawn that cracked your jaw made you scrap that idea, and you shuffled to the bedroom. You discarded your jeans on the floor and landed face-first on the bed and let out a frustrated sigh._

Voices grow louder, closer, and stir me from my thoughts, and I’d almost forgotten I was still in this dressing room, still in a stadium, still reliving this day, and I can’t help but groan when I realize. It’s you, and Eddie. There aren’t proper walls back here, just temporary rigs of scaffolding pipes and drapery, and you must be just on the other side of this “wall,” right behind me on this couch. Eddie’s laughing, of course he is, and I can hear soft, frustrated sounds from you, and I wonder if I can burrow myself into this couch so I never have to deal with this again. When I’m contemplating how to suffocate myself in the cushion, you make a shrill victory noise, I can tell you’ve been drinking, and there’s more laughter.

“So this is just the first mix,” you say, “Ah, fuck, they’re still tangled.”

A rustling sound, you’re clearly having a hard time of this, but it registers in my head, finally, what you said. First mix? You’re -- and there it is, the quiet “mmm” sounds of approval that I’ve come to recognize as you listening to our own music. You’re playing one of the new songs for Eddie. Your headphones were tangled like always. Hysteria and vodka wash over me, and it takes everything in me to not laugh out loud, but I have sense left to know if I can hear you, you could hear me, so I turn my face into the cushion and laugh silently at myself. Maybe I _have_ been crazy, all along, this entire time.

_You know what you heard, and how he crawled into bed that night._

_You had only just fallen asleep, finally, when the sound of the hotel room door slamming startled you awake. A muffled “shh!” followed immediately, and then there was laughter, too much laughter even for drunk Bono, and that’s when you realized._

_He wasn’t alone._

_“Do you want a night cap?” he asked, and you could hear the glasses clanging together in the other room, and you were so angry with yourself for not shutting the bedroom door, and you were so angry at all of it._

_“I wouldn’t say no,” Eddie replied, then there was a rustle of fabric, and you could tell he took a seat on the couch. Another similar sound followed - Bono joining him on the couch, and you wanted to crawl into the mattress, you wanted to run into the front room and scream at them, you wanted to still be asleep and have this all be a drunk nightmare. All you could do was lay there._

_Their voices were low, and you could only make out a few words here and there, then Bono giggled, actually giggled, around a compliment on Eddie’s wild hair, and then, there it was, the unmistakable sound of kissing._

_Betrayal and hurt bubbled up in you, but you remembered, weeks earlier, he had asked you, “Edge, what are we doing?” and you had only replied, “What feels good, Bono” and your heart screamed at you for it, but there was so much, too much, that would be destroyed by something that felt so good, so you left it at that. You both left it at that, and he didn’t make any effort to further the conversation, and you hadn’t revisited it since. You couldn’t stay in your own head for long now, though, even if you wanted to, because the sounds coming from the front room were relentless._

_There was more rustling, a few tired couch springs creaking, and a low moan from Bono that had to mean he was moving onto his back - a sound you had heard him make, caused him to make, not even 12 hours earlier, in this very bed. “Your mouth… damn,” Eddie muttered, then the sound of wetter kisses filled the air. You shifted around, pulled a pillow over your head, but it was no use. And it wasn’t like you hadn’t heard Bono doing this before - he and Ali had been teenagers together when the band was getting started, after all, but that was different, and it was before all of this, before you knew what those kisses felt like, before you were the one to make him writhe under you._

_“Eddie…” Bono moaned, and the sound made you bristle, it sounded so like he was going to moan your own name at first. Then, the metallic rattle of a belt buckle, a dark laugh from Bono, and the sound of the coffee table being moved across the floor, and you couldn’t believe you had to to lay here and listen to this. After a few mostly quiet moments, punctuated by loud, smacking kisses that Bono was undoubtedly trailing down Eddie’s chest, you heard it - wet and obscene, and then a growl from Eddie that immediately was under your skin. The first time Bono went down on you, you couldn’t believe how wet his mouth was, the way his throat opened up for you, and from the sounds Eddie made, it was clear he was experiencing exactly that._

_It went on like this for several minutes, and it wasn’t until you let out a soft whine of your own that you realized you had started grinding yourself against the sheets at some point. You gasped, and clasped a hand over your mouth, but Eddie’s moans only grew louder, too far gone to hear you. “Shit,” you hissed out, lower than a whisper, “Shit,” you worked a hand down to where you were throbbing, and when Eddie shouted, you squeezed yourself, and it was fucked, it was all so fucked._

_“Gonna make you come, too, you beautiful thing,” Eddie all but cooed, and you didn’t need to see Bono to know the delighted expression on his face, and you heard the couch creak under their weight, Eddie must have lifted Bono back up onto it, and you had to smile in spite of yourself because Bono always liked when you’d muscle him around. Eddie talked through it, and you took a slightly sick satisfaction in knowing he didn’t suck Bono off, that was apparently still just reserved for you. When Bono groaned Eddie’s name, though, and begged him for more, tighter, harder, your smile faltered, but you stroked yourself furiously and worked yourself up right along with him, and when he came, you did, too, your face buried in a pillow, tears stinging your eyes._

“Come on, then. Party’s over.”

“What?” I blink a few times, willing my eyes to refocus. Adam’s standing above me, outlined in light, and it’s too bright, so I groan and turn onto my side.

“I brought you water. Let’s get you out of here.” He extends a hand to me, and I weakly sit up, but the room spins and I slump back on the couch. “Water first,” he uncaps the bottle and tips it toward me, but I manage to take it and drink myself. “You look like hell,” he observes.

“I feel it.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” His eyes are so caring, I could spill it all now, but I almost spill the water instead when I shake my head. “Right. Later, then. Car’s waiting.”

I let Adam slip an arm under mine and pull me to my feet, and he walks me out of the stadium, to the waiting car, and it’s the only one left and I should apologize for however long he waited for me, but my mouth feels like cotton. “In you go,” he’s so calm, cheerful even, and a quick series of memories of us, roles switched, flashes through my mind. I want to talk to him about this, tell him he’s my best friend and I’m so grateful for the way we’ve seen each other through it all, but the dark city whizzing past is too much for my head, and I have to settle for weakly exchanging smiles with him when streetlights illuminate the inside of the car. The ride to the hotel is mercifully short, and Adam takes me right to my door.

“I’ll come in and get you settled, Edge. Have you eaten anything tonight?”

I give him a look I hope expresses “what do you think?” and he nods and helps me out of my jacket.

“Take a shower. I’ll get dinner sorted.”

I make it to the bathroom and catch myself in the mirror, and I do look like hell, but I feel like hell, so at least I’ve got that bit of coordination going for me. I turn the shower hot, and just stand there, too exhausted to bother with soap, and I hope the water will do enough for now. Reaching for the robe on the back of the door makes me wince, I must have laid funny on the couch, and I’m grateful we have a few days off before the next show. Adam’s reading a newspaper at the table when I return to the main room, and there’s what can only be described as a small mountain of chicken fingers and french fries on the table.

“Not much variety this hour of the night, but it should soak up the alcohol,” he says, then slides a bottle of Advil toward me.

“You’re an angel,” I tell him, and he looks pleased I’ve gotten a sentence out, especially one paired with a smile. I take a few fries and throw myself into a chair. “This is perfect."

He lets me eat in silence for a few minutes, but I can feel his eyes on me, so once I’ve finished my second piece of chicken, I sigh and sit back. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t lower his paper yet, and I spread my hands open in front of me. “It’s nothing, really.”

“Alright.” He ruffles the newspaper.

Cheeky bastard. “It’s Bono.” That gets him to set the paper down, and his expression is so warm, so safe. “It’s Bono, and before you start in on me, I’ve decided I will take care of it.” No, I haven’t, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“I’ve been waiting to hear you say that,” he replies, and my eyes bug, but I’m too drained to protest or defend myself or… of course he’s known. Dammit. But it’s Adam, he’s warm and safe and my best friend and this is the most okay I’ve felt all night. He holds up a placating hand anyway, “I don’t need you to get into it now, Edge. Just keep yourself okay, alright?”

“Right.”

We settle back into a comfortable silence at that, and when I’ve gotten through most of the plate, he stands and folds up the newspaper. “Talk to him, soon. I’m not sure how many nights like this I have left in me at my old age.” His face is laughing, in that non-laughing way of his, but I know he’s worried about me, and I love him for it.

“I will, Ad.”

“Get some sleep.”

I glance at my phone after he’s left, then think better of starting this with you at this hour, and make for the bed. My body feels like it’s moving in slow motion now, exhaustion catching up with me, but when I settle under the sheets, my brain takes off again.

_You laid there, panting and holding back tears, until you heard the belt buckle again, a zipper, low, murmuring voices. Feet shuffled, more wet kisses, and then the door and Eddie was gone. You braced yourself for Bono coming in, held your breath and willed yourself to calm down, but you heard ice cubes clinking in a glass, he was finishing their drinks, so you had a moment yet. When Bono walked in the room, and approached the bed, you were confident he’d be able to hear your pounding heart, but he didn’t say anything about it, just crawled into bed with an entirely ungraceful grunt._

_“Did I wake you?” he asked after a moment, voice shot._

_“What? Go to sleep, Bono.”_

_“Reg?”_

_“Yes, you woke me.”_

_Silence._

_You had been confident he’d fallen asleep, he’d turned over and away from you and pulled the blankets tight against himself, when he whispered, “It didn’t mean anything.”_

_You let a tear fall, silent, you couldn’t help it, and you didn’t sleep that night._

I don’t sleep. I spend the dim hours of early morning, the hours I see entirely too often, playing back that entire night, over and over, and the room eventually lightens, and I’m just overtired enough to call it bravery, so I sit up in bed, and type out a text.

‘If it didn’t mean anything, why did you do it?’

I stare at my phone, and before I can think better of it, I tap ‘send.’ Your immediate reply of ‘What?’ makes my stomach drop, but then you’re typing again, and ‘I’m coming to your room.’ appears on my screen. Shit. Okay. We’re doing this. I tighten my robe back around myself and run my hand down my face. Scratchy, but I don’t have time to think about how I must look, because there’s your knock, quieter than usual.

You’re in a hotel-issue robe, too, socks slouchy around your ankles. No shoes. You’re more interested in the door frame, not quite meeting my eye, and I regret the tone of my text immediately. “Come here,” I extend a hand to your shoulder, and you don’t exactly stiffen, so I guide you into the room so I can close the door, but I can tell you’re worried, and more than my own issues, I hate that I’ve made you feel this way. I can’t help but pull you into a hug, and you let me, but you don’t hug me back, not at first, but I’m not letting go, and your arms wrap around me eventually, and I can feel your breath warm on my neck.

“You could have told me you didn’t want him there, Reg,” your voice is muffled. I wasn’t positive you’d know what I meant when I texted you, but I realize that was foolish - this is you, after all, and you remember everything.

But not have Eddie there last night? “No, Bono,” I’ve grown to love the guy over the years, “That’s not it, not at all.” You let out what I guess could be called a laugh, though your face remains unreadable, save for the worry I can see in your eyes, in lines on your forehead. I walk us to the couch, and you lay down and rest your head in my lap, and it’s such a delicate position I can feel my throat tightening with emotion. My fingers find their natural place in your hair and you let out a shaky sigh. Your demeanor is so fragile, too timid, and I almost wish we were younger because then we could yell this out instead, it would hurt more but it would be easier on my heart. We stay quiet for a few minutes, and I realize I have no idea where to begin this, but you save me when you clear your throat.

“Why didn’t we ever talk about that night?” You ask, shifting some so you’re facing up at me, and I run my thumb over your brows and forehead, but they stay furrowed.

“I was scared, I think.”

“Me too,” you nod.

I can see this conversation circling to nowhere, but I need to rip this bandaid off, so I take a deep breath and get back to it. “I heard you.” You squeeze your eyes shut, and I’m sure you assumed as much, but I had to say it. “I heard all of it.”

“Edge--”

“Let me say what I need to, okay?” You nod, the slightest motion, and I glance out the window to gather my thoughts. “I wasn’t mad.” It’s a start. “I had no reason to be mad, you know.”

“You had every right to be mad.”

“I know.”

“Thank you for not being mad.”

My turn to simply nod, but it feels good to have our practiced back-and-forth back after such a bad night. I consider my feelings carefully. We’ve done so well, all these years, our doing what feels good, except for that one night, and I finally put words to why. “I was hurt.” I say, after a pause, “Not that it happened - he’s hot!” I can’t help but add, and it makes you smile, a genuine smile, and I’m so glad for it, “I thought we were able to talk through anything. And then we…”

“Didn’t.”

“And that’s what scared me.”

“Reg.” It comes out more an apology than my nickname, and your brow finally relaxes, and your eyes are shining with love. I have to lean down and kiss you, and it’s barely a kiss, our lips just brush each other, but it’s enough. When I sit up straight again, I consider pressing further, finding out why, what actually went on that night, but it was 25 years ago, and I have to wonder if it even matters. It doesn’t matter. You watch me think, in that way you do, and I’m certain you have some idea what is going on in my brain.

“We’ve done okay, haven’t we?”

“Why yes, I believe we have, The Edge.”

There’s always been something about the way you say my full name like that, and I smile down at you, before sighing, a relieved sigh this time, then leaning so my head is resting on the back of the couch. I’m not sure how long we sit like this, but when you stir, I realize I must have fallen asleep, and you make an annoyed noise.

“Damn interviews,” you mutter. It takes me a moment to register what’s going on, but then you’re sitting next to me, your hand cupping the back of my neck, and you’re pressing our foreheads together. “I have to go.”

“Stay? Blow them off?” I know you can’t. I know you’re Bono. I know what I signed on for with you.

You smile and bite your lower lip at that, then lean up to kiss me, then without another word, you’re out of my room, and I turn so I can stretch out on the couch. I need to sleep, desperately.

_You didn’t sleep that night. He did. He snored and moved around and somehow managed to make a show out of even sleeping, which was usually a source of amusement for you. That night, though, every time he shifted made you want to scream. You almost did, several times. You should have. You shouldn’t have. Each time, you thought about it too hard, and then the moment passed and you lost the urge as fast as it hit. A few hours later, the snoring stopped, but you weren’t ready, not yet, so you stayed quiet and still when Bono padded off to the bathroom. A few minutes later, you heard him pick up the phone and call for room service, and you don’t know how he knew you were actually awake, but he asked if you wanted coffee, and you gave a bewildered “Yes, black,” in response. You made no effort to get out of bed, yet, you weren’t ready to face whatever was going to come next._

_“We should head back soon,” he said when he returned to the bedroom a short time later, coffee in-hand, and all you could do was take your cup from him and nod. He quirked an eyebrow at you and a smile tugged at his lips. “Hungover?”_

_“Yeah.” You weren’t, really, but it was the easier answer._

_“Times’ a-wastin’” he put on his version of a drawl, his eyes sparkled, and you had no idea how to respond, so you didn’t, just carefully sipped your coffee. It was bitter, and it was just what you needed. He got to work gathering his things - barely 18 hours in this hotel, and he managed to make a tornado out of it, and you couldn’t decide if you were relieved or annoyed he wasn’t trying to talk. You made it through half the cup of coffee before setting it aside, and took your turn in the bathroom. You hadn’t brought more than a backpack, so you were ready to go within a few minutes, and Bono was waiting for you by the door when you emerged. “You good?”_

_“I am. Just tired.” You kept your eyes focused on the door, not wanting to look at the couch where they had been last night._

_“Okay.”_

_And that had been that. Your flight to Minneapolis was spent in near-silence, and you must have managed to convince yourself you actually were hungover, because you developed a splitting headache. It gave your mood terrific excuse, though, so you took the window seat and let Bono do his thing, talking up anyone who would listen on the plane. It didn’t mean anything. You kept repeating it in your head, the sound of his ruined voice, the hushed whisper he had to have known you heard._

“It didn’t mean anything,” I say it, out loud, myself, and it all seems so simple, just a few small words, and I laugh, and it’s been 25 years and we have been through so many unfathomably worse things, and I laugh harder, and it’s probably because I’m hysterically tired, but I feel better about it all. Better enough to properly sleep, I imagine, and I’m not needed anywhere for several hours, so I pick up my phone to set an alarm on my way to the bedroom, when it buzzes.

‘I’m on my way with breakfast. Ready to tell me this whole story?’ Adam. Dammit.


End file.
